There’s a beach asleep and drear;
There’s a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken, trampled graves;
And a little rotting pier:
And winding paths that wind unceasingly.
There’s a torn and silent valley:
There’s a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth
There are lines of buried bones:
There’s an unpaid waiting debt:
There’s the sound of gentle sobbing in the south.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2014/8/7 - 09:43
Note for non-Italian users: Sorry, though the interface of this website is translated into English, most commentaries and biographies are in Italian and/or in other languages like French, German, Spanish, Russian etc.